


Dark Avengers Shorts

by Mozzarella



Category: Dark Avengers (Comic), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Evil, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Community: gayreign, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-25
Updated: 2016-03-25
Packaged: 2018-05-29 00:06:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6350965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mozzarella/pseuds/Mozzarella
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A bunch of shorts I did for the gayreign (Dark Avengers fandom livejournal) community years ago! Ratings and warnings mentioned in every chapter. </p><p>1)  Daken and Bullseye playing Poker and not trying to kill each other</p><p>2) Daken/Bullseye, Bullseye finding out Daken's real name </p><p>3) Dark Avengers medieval fantasy AU, Captain Rogers and the King's men meet Lord Osborn</p><p>4) Murderer!Daredevil traveling to different worlds to kill every single Bullseye, alternate universe, hero!Bullseye/rule63!hero(ish)Daken</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Poker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lester and Daken play cards

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: T
> 
> Chapter content: Safe stuff, gen, just some cursing
> 
> 9/4/2013

 

"Hey, Daken."

Too deep in thought to take notice of the others in the room, Daken was surprised to see Bullseye waving him over from the glass top table, shuffling cards in one hand with practiced ease.

"You play?" he asked when Daken came forward, more out of curiosity than anything. He was so used to seeing Lester keyed up (since he was usually the one keying him up, not that the psychopath needed that much of a push to get his blood boiling) that it was odd to see him so relaxed, without the usual aggression that came with his need to kill, and Osborn's all too many restrictions.

"Well you probably play better than these idiots," Lester continued, gesturing to Noh-Var, sitting at the end of the table, and Mac on the couch watching Oprah like nothing could tear him away. "Hey!" the spidey-double said absently, scarfing down a bowl of chips.

"You've got a shit poker face, Gargan, don't whine about it!" Lester called back, dealing without looking, the cards coming to a stop in a perfect fan in front of Daken's hands.

"Why?" Daken said, picking the hand up with one well-tapered eyebrow raised in mild suspicion.

"Why not?" Lester returned with an easy gesture.

With a shrug and a nod, the two sat together, in for a long game. It was surprisingly peaceful, and Victoria Hand wandered in halfway through, wondering if she could make poker night a regular thing if that meant there was less blood to clean out of the carpets.


	2. Names

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lester wants to own Daken's name the way he's done him

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: E
> 
> Chapter content: Tender sex, vulnerable Daken
> 
> 9/4/2013

He forgot himself in that moment, one strong arm wrapped tight around his chest, the other angled down, a calloused, skilful hand stroking his cock in perfect counterpoint to the quickening thrusts into his ass. Daken couldn't tell where Lester ended and he began, with the assassin--the psychopath, the sick junkie, the perfect, well-oiled killing machine--holding him so damn close that if anyone had seen them, it might have been mistaken for lovemaking.  
  
Daken clenched his fists into the sheets and took it, eyes wide open in shock when Lester slowed, lips on the back of Daken's neck almost like a caress.  
  
This wasn't right.  
  
He shuddered through his orgasm, mouthing 'Lester' as he came, painting Lester's hands (the hands that had killed thousands, including Daken himself on more than one occasion) with streaks of his cum.  
  
The assassin didn't pull out (he wasn't finished, Daken knew, but if he didn't soon then he'd have to make do on his own, because healing factor or no, Daken's arms were getting tired from holding them both up), and instead pressed closer, from chest to thighs, flattening himself against Daken's back and biting his neck in an action that was almost languid.  
  
"Hey," Lester rumbled momentarily, shifting one arm down to support their weight. "What's your name?" he murmured.  
  
Daken froze. "What?"  
  
"Your real name," Lester said. "I looked it up. No fucking way I'm calling you Daken while we're... well, fucking. I dunno what kinda shit dad would call you that." He sniggered against Daken's shoulder, and the mutant reached up with one free hand to smack him.  
  
"Get off," Daken said without as much conviction as he'd hoped. Shoving him didn't do much, with the weight of Lester distributed evenly along his back.  
  
"I will when you tell me your name," Lester said, arm still tight around Daken's middle. He pressed kisses against the base of Daken's neck, and Daken wanted nothing more than to stab him.  
  
"You seem perfectly happy calling me that in public," Daken muttered.  
  
"Thass'different," Lester muttered. "Real name's too fucking important to let just anyone hear it."  
  
"Oh, and you think you're important enough to warrant that?" Daken scoffed, the effect ruined by Lester's pointed roll of hips and the undignified sound that it punched out of him.  
  
"You've been owning mine since day one," Lester breathed. "The way you always said it. Rolling it around your tongue like you were giving it head. Like a fucking slut." He punctuated that with a thrust, and Daken snarled at him.  
  
"Tell me," Lester murmured. He tilted his head down, enough that he could capture Daken's lips in a terrifyingly tender gesture. When they parted, Daken murmured, "Akihiro," just once, at the end of his breath.  
  
"Aki," Lester panted, his teeth clenched as he began to move, and Daken began to writhe beneath him, taking as good as he got. The two of them rutted like animals, Daken's name (his true name) on his lips like a prayer, like supplication, like a promise as he came.  
  
Daken was afraid. Afraid when his heart leapt as Lester turned him over, afraid when they held close, like this was more than just the fucking. He'd given something of himself that he never thought he would, and he was afraid.


	3. (untitled Medieval fantasy AU)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Captain Rogers and the King's men enter the house of Osborn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: G
> 
> Content: Game of Thrones inspired shenanigans, nothing explicit
> 
> 5/29/2012

  
"I don't like this."

"Aye. Osborn's men are vicious, and even worse, they are competent. He is not a good man, but he is an effective lord, to keep his people in order and his fiefs prosperous."

"Osborn is no honorable man," said the Captain, Rogers, "but he is an intelligent one. He will not initiate conflict with a king, or anyone, unless he has something to gain of it."

"He has designs on kingship," said Anthony, grimacing pointedly. "This treaty... allowing himself to be subjugated like this... it isn't anything like Osborn's style. Whatever his plan is, our presence only brings him closer to our king's naked throat."

"He asks for peace, we give him peace," Rogers said, sighing. "But only for now."

They arrived at the high gates of Lord Osborn's land, entering his territory with due wariness. They were welcomed at Osborn's doors by a man with many small scars, including the old scars of a carved target on his forehead. He grinned at them once, like a nightmare, and said, "Lord Osborn welcomes you into his house," with some irony in his tone. His words were kind, but all else about him was cruel.

"Who was that?" Anthony whispered as soon as he was out of earshot. "He looks dreadful."

"I've heard of him," said Clint, their hawk's eye and second to the Captain. "They call him the Bull's Eye. He is Lord Osborn's Captain and King's guard. His merit is measured by the number of heads at Osborn's door."

"There were many heads," said their hooded companion, whose robes were black and red. "Some of them assassins. I recognize them from the times we've spent together in the service."

"How many, Widow?" asked Clint.

"I counted twelve as we walked. There are perhaps more, spanning the wide, high walls."

"Osborn has many enemies. I hear he keeps guards by his door to protect him," said Clint.

"I hear otherwise," said the Widow.

"Oh?" Anthony intoned.

"I hear he keeps one in his bed," said the Widow, "who has killed a hundred men."

"A woman-assassin, like you?" asked Rogers, curiosity piqued.

"Not as I've heard."

And when they were met at the hall with Osborn and his men, they were surprised by those at his side.

One hanging from his arm was a beauty of foreign distinction--Eastern, if Anthony remembered his travels with his father. This one even wore silk robes Tony certainly knew from merchants who bragged of its worth and richness.

And one more look told him what the Widow meant--this one was a man, even with his long hair and graceful stance and his dark, dark eyes.

If Anthony hadn't been looking for it, he wouldn't have seen it--the glint of a knife at one long silk sleeve, sharp as the knife-edge smile gracing pretty lips.

Beside this one stood the Captain of the guard, the man with scars and his hardened gaze, a bow at his arm and arrows at his back. He looked everything like a killer, and pleased for it.

At Osborn's other side was a noblewoman with golden hair and a rich red dress. She had fiercely intelligent eyes, watching them like she was reading them, like they were open books. Hers was a penetrating gaze, and Anthony could see their Captain looking down, sensing the danger of it.

He didn't see how she looked at Clint, or how Clint looked away as well, the barest of flushes on his face.

He had a knight, as well. A golden haired, kind-faced knight Rogers recognized as Ser Robert, who once served among them. He was not one to seek money or power, but he was swayed by Osborn's words. It was disheartening to see him standing opposite they who were once his friends.

Beside him was a black knight, his pale face hidden by a frightening, monstrous helmet that was shaped with sharp jaws and a gaping maw. It gave him the appearance of a perpetual grin, though Rogers knew that was not his real face.

A third knight stood there, hair so yellow it was white in the light. He had the same look as Ser Robert, and Rogers did not doubt his goodness. Osborn was a skilled manipulator, then, if he had swayed another good man to his cause.

And at the edge of them was a mountain of a man, bigger than Thor. His armor was strange--Grecian, as Rogers remembered from pictures in the Royal library. His presence discomfited him. He wished Thor were not away at his own Kingdom over the mountain.

And finally, entering later than the others, there was a lady with red hair and spectacles like Rogers had seen from castle librarians and alchemists when they read from their books with weaker eyes. She was not dressed like a lady, but her clothes were still quite grand--they were robes, the robes of an adviser, long and solemn and fitting.

Her eyes were calculating, but not cruel. There was no amusement in them.

Competent, he remembered Clint saying. In spite of old laws and norms, Osborn knew what people to surround himself with.

It didn't take long for Rogers to feel as Anthony did--dreading this treaty, dreading the fortnight they would spend under Osborn's roof with these men who were almost creatures.


	4. Devils and Monsters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Devils in the Glass and Monsters in the Mirror: One Matt Murdock finally gets the stones to do what he should have done years ago, offs his world's Bullseye, and thinks it's a good idea to pop over to other worlds to do the same. He didn't figure in a domestic house and a vicious, loving wife.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rated M
> 
> Chapter content: Alternate universe, Violence and murder, evil!Daredevil, hero!Bullseye, rule63!Daken
> 
> 9/2/2011

****

It was simple, really, once he got the hang of it.

Frank had taught him to get through most of it with the stomach to do what he needed to do. He’d long since cut ties with the other heroes… his other friends…

He’d heard from his more reliable sources that Foggy was still looking.

He felt tempted to contact him—after all, they were best friends.

Were. Operative term there—past tense.

He had no assistance in his missions. It would cheapen the meaning of it. It was _his_ responsibility more than anyone’s.

For the sake of what people he had left to care for. For the sake of the people he once cared for.

Karen.

Elektra.

They were only two names among hundreds, maybe even thousands, that were torn from the prime of life by one sick, deranged man.

Monster.

Once he’d gotten the stones to do what he should have done years ago, that was when the Traveler approached him. Gave him this… this chance… this opportunity to act.

His mission was clear after that.

The first world after his own was nearly identical, except this Bullseye—this Lester—had gotten to Milla too. Poor, sweet Milla. The monster had made good on his promise, had enjoyed her slow death…

The very same thing the devil granted him.

While Matt Murdock of that world recovered from a fractured skull and a coma which he would come out of in a few weeks, only to remember that his wife was dead, the devil of another world came and viciously wounded that world’s Bullseye—broke his arms, his legs, cracked his ribs and watching his heartbeat carefully, if only to prolong the pain.

The final rattling breath felt like the first time. He felt so free.

It was then, perhaps, more than his real first kill of his own world’s Lester, that he knew what he needed to do.

And he stepped into the next world, blood in his hands to yield a river more.

\-----

The further he strayed into these strange worlds, the more different they seemed. In some, Lester wore the false face of Hawkeye when the devil came to collect. In others, the time was entirely different, ranging from the 16th century to the early 1900s, different personas to a cruel man of one character.

Facades, the lot of them. He knew as he dealt with them, as they engaged in combat that felt repeated to him but unique, still, in many ways. Deep inside every character lay the hideous, murdering soul of Lester, of Bullseye.

Still, as strange as each persona was, this was probably the oddest.

It never occurred to him that Lester would ever settle down. Have a _house_ , of all things, but he had money. In this world, he had **a lot** of money.

The devil in black and red crept into the rich front hall, finding a strange contrast between the cold stones and marbles and the warmth of what he realized was the kitchen… and a den.

He had never deviated before. His focus would always be on Lester, regardless of what might surround him… and yet…

The carpeted, toy-filled playroom was too off-putting to ignore.  

He almost doubted he’d found the right place. How could this be the house of a monster, when it seemed nothing more than that of a man?

The light at the top of the staircase was switched on—he heard the sound, and the creak of steady steps descending. He hid in the den, feeling a familiar frame passed through the hallway and entered the kitchen, presumably for a glass of water.

He focused on the running water, on the still-cautious movements of a trained fighter, and allowed his doubt to dissipate into the night air.

In his hand, a sai, the devil sent a glass angel figurine crashing to the pristine floor.

Immediately, the switch was thrown in the man in the kitchen, body suddenly tensing and not a sound made as the figure crept into the den, knives arranged in one hand.

He turned just as the devil lunged.

“No—”

He let loose the knives, but only one found its target in the devil’s left arm, but he didn’t even feel it. All he could feel was the satisfying crunch of bone and squish of muscle, the smell of blood and the palpitations of a dying heart.

Lester—yes, it was definitely him—fell to the floor, his breaths labored and choking with a rising flow of blood.

“No—you—not in my home…”

It came as something of a shock to the devil when the monster found the strength to stand again, pulling the sai from his own ribcage and throwing it, catching his attacker off-guard with the louder crash of a breaking vase.

It sliced skin, leaving a deep gash in the devil’s side. Bad… but he wasn’t dying.

The blood was bubbling against Lester’s lips. It was a wonder he was even still standing.

He was saying something…

“A…. A…. kk… Aki….” He gurgled grotesquely, leaning against the fireplace.

The devil was surprised by the sudden steps out in the hall. It was as if they came out of nowhere… when he realized that he was too engrossed to realize that there was someone else in the house.

 A woman, smelling of jasmine and so many other sweet things he couldn’t identify. Her scent was overwhelming. He almost couldn’t sense her fear—or her rage—if she hadn’t spoken just then.

“Love, I heard a—”

She stopped, a delicate figure against the doorway. Radar showed her as lithe, thin, and yet… yes, there wasn’t just one new heartbeat, but two, and the healthy curve of her lower stomach.

She was pregnant. Pregnant from Lester…

Lester’s wife.

Lester had a wife.

“No… Lester!”

For the first time since his mission had begun, since the first of almost three dozen kills, the devil was trapped.

She ran to Lester, caught him before his knees gave way and held him tightly, disregarding the other man in the room entirely.

At first he thought she was crying. The way she was sniffing, it was an easy assumption to make, but there were no tears, or sobs, or sadness.

She was scenting him.

And she lay Lester gently down on the floor, crossing the room in an infinitesimal moment.

He caught her hand, lightning fast, before the fist made contact with one of his ribs, but he couldn’t have seen (that was, heard, or felt) what was coming.

A sickening ‘snickt’, and he felt himself stabbed through by three damaging claws.

Another three were brought down against his face, taking a good amount off before he was able to push her away, clutching his wounds fatally.

“Go to hell!!!”

Another set, this time, to his chest—all six claws, from knuckles to wrists, making paths in his body like it was nothing.

He never expected this.

He never…

 -----

“I… thought he was dead. Fisk killed him…”

“Sh,” Aki bade quietly, stroking her husband’s thin fuzz of blond hair and soothing him with butterfly kisses. “Don’t speak. I’ve already called the others in. Medical help should be here in no time.”

“Th—this—he… he coulda hurt you. H… hurt Itsuko…”

“Don’t think about it. He was a mad man. A devil. But he’s dead now. Really dead, I promise. I made sure of it.”

Lester stared up in something akin to wonder.

“What is it?” Aki asked softly.

“Nothing. I… I think I would die without you.”

“You’d get yourself killed, for sure,” Aki agreed, aware of the alarum as finally, finally, Norman sent his forces in.

Lester was treated for the next few months in Avengers Tower clinic, overlapping eventually with Aki’s labor. Life, as it seemed, moved on.

All that was left of a devil and his mission was blood dried into the spaces between tiles and the scratches of broken glass in the den.


End file.
